Chapter Text
DEAN
Once September hits, it shouldn’t be this hot.
It was with glee that Dean pulled his flannels, leather jacket, and thick jeans out of the closet last week, ready to cover up his t-shirts with comfortable fall layers. Not that his summer closet was long-lived — he endured the sweat up until late June, when he begrudgingly admitted it was time to show some skin.
But the perfect mid-50s of last week are gone, replaced once again by a sweltering 80 and an oppressively blue sky. Halloween is just six weeks away and this is ridiculous.
As he pushes his way out of the coffee shop, Dean glares up at the morning sun and shifts his already-dewy arms in his several layers of sleeves. His leather jacket stands out in the throng of people clad once again in sundresses, linen button-ups, and loose swishy pants.
He grumbles and stubbornly takes a sip of his (hot) coffee, refusing to admit to himself that an iced latte would feel amazing right about now.
It’s as he rounds the corner off Main Street that he nearly collides with him.
Runner Guy.
Dean hasn’t come up with a better mental nickname for the guy yet, despite having been watching him surreptitiously for over a month now. Sure, other names have come to mind, each more explicit and embarrassing than the next, but he refuses to actually think the words “Sex Hair” on a regular basis. Runner Guy it is. It’s factual, to the point. He’s a guy who runs. A blue-eyed guy who runs. A blue-eyed, dark-stubbled, chisel-cheeked guy who runs past the coffee shop every morning at 7:52 a.m., and keeps on running through Dean’s thoughts well into the evening.
It’s not like Dean is being a creep. He’s just a man of habit, and Runner Guy is, too. So what if Dean started leaving his apartment just slightly earlier to catch a longer glimpse of those toned legs. It just means that he’s been getting to work earlier and whipping the shop into shape before Bobby even arrives. It means he’s finally motivated to get out of bed again.
This is healthy.
Today, though, is different. Today Dean’s heart doesn’t just bounce at the sight of Runner Guy.
Today it practically rockets out of his chest, because today Runner Guy is shirtless.
He’s also less than a foot away from Dean, so for a split second Dean has a close-up view of the guy’s glistening, shapely pecs — outlined by a bright, angry sunburn — and of his angular collarbone, of the trail of dark hair tracing down from his navel to the waistband of those tight orange shorts—
The sweat in his sleeve is suddenly joined by much hotter liquid, and he tears his eyes from Runner Guy’s imminent torso to the now-dripping cup clenched in his fist. Coffee spills over his knuckles, splashing into a puddle on the sidewalk and onto a pair of sensible running shoes. White running shoes.
Dean didn’t think he could sweat more today, but the panicked heat he’s steeping in right now has every pore leaking.
“Dude, I’m so sor—” he starts, just as Runner Guy says, “Your coffee.”
That gravelly voice prompts Dean to finally look back up at Runner Guy’s very close face. His eyes are wide, surprised, brilliantly blue against the pink flush of his cheeks. His lips are parted, and Dean’s never been able to tell from across the street just how pink they are, too, amid the guy’s well-groomed stubble. He’s nearly the same height as Dean, perhaps an inch or so shorter, and he meets Dean’s stare with an inscrutable expression, left hand raised to hold back one side of his headphones.
“It’s no problem,” Dean musters.
“Please let me buy you a new one,” the guy says, stepping around Dean and the brown puddle. Dean tries hard to keep his eyes above the guy’s nipples as he mirrors the movement.
“No, man, really. I ruined your shoes. Let’s call it even.”
Runner Guy looks down as if just noticing the hot liquid on his toes. Dean braces himself, but the guy just looks mildly surprised. “They’re machine washable,” he says, and tugs the headphones down to hang around his neck. Then he carries right on, back onto Main Street toward the coffee shop.
“I— okay,” Dean says, forcing his feet into motion. Now that the guy’s back is turned, he allows his eyes to linger. Runner Guy walks very differently than he runs — straight-backed and measured, like he’s used to wearing tucked-in shirts and starchy collars. Dean’s never really been into the monkey suit look, but the idea of expensive fabric straining across those broad shoulders is appealing.
There’s a white garment tucked into the back waistband of the guy’s shorts, and Dean studies it (definitely not what it’s hanging over) — it seems to be a tanktop, with lettering on the side that’s folded in. Dean catches a D and a B as the shirt swings with Runner Guy’s stride.
“Aren’t you warm in that jacket?” that gravelly voice asks, and Dean hastily shifts his eyes back up to find the guy looking at him over his shoulder. He speeds up so they’re walking side by side.
“Nah,” he lies. A bead of sweat drips into his eyes and he blinks as it burns. Runner Guy tilts his head, but doesn’t question further.
It takes them about twenty more seconds to arrive at the cafe, and Dean spends each one desperately trying to form words, any words, but the connection between his brain and mouth seems to have been left behind on the sidewalk with the puddle of coffee.
“What do you drink?” Runner Guy asks, reaching out to open the door of the shop. Then, before Dean can decide if his drink of choice sounds sexy enough to share, Runner Guy freezes. Mental math appears behind his eyes.
Dean waits for a second, then clears his throat. “You good?”
“Um—” Runner Guy slowly lets his hand fall from the door. His other hand reaches around his back to grasp the hanging tank top, almost tugging it free before hesitating. “I, uh, can’t—”
“Excuse me, sir.” An elderly woman dressed in a sharp pantsuit stands behind Runner Guy, eyeing his bare chest critically. “Are you going inside?”
“I think that’s up in the air,” Dean tells her with a wink, as Runner Guy’s cheeks flush a red so deep it nearly matches his sunburn. He takes a few steps back to allow the woman to enter. Then, without meeting Dean’s eyes, he digs into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a crumpled bill.
“Here,” he says gruffly, pressing the bill into Dean’s hand. “Coffee is on me. Apologies again.”
The bill is damp and warm. Dean opens his mouth, but it’s too late. True to his name, Runner Guy is running — a full sprint down the street, tanktop wagging erratically in his wake. He disappears around the corner. Dean chews his lip, sweats, and stares at the five dollars in his hand.
What the hell just happened?